There is nothing
of the lyrical triviality of the verse in _The Feast at Solhoug_ about
the trenchant prose of _The Vikings_, and the crepuscular dimness of
_Lady Inger_ is exchanged for a perfect lucidity and directness.
Whatever we may think about the theatrical propriety of the conductor of
the vikings, there is no question at all as to what it is they do and
mean. Ibsen has gained, and for good, that master quality of translucent
presentation without which all other stage gifts are shorn of their
value. When we have, however, praised the limpidity of _The Vikings at
Helgeland_, we have, in honesty, to make several reservations in our
criticism of the author's choice of a subject. It is valuable to compare
Ibsen's treatment of Icelandic family-saga with that of William Morris;
let us say, in _The Lovers of Gudrun_. That enchanting little epic deals
with an episode from one of the great Iceland narratives, and follows it
much more closely than Ibsen's does. But we are conscious of a less
painful effort and of a more human result. Morris does successfully what
Ibsen unsuccessfully aimed at doing: he translates the heroic and half-
fabulous action into terms that are human and credible.
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